Who Did You Tell (ARC)

by Lesley Kara

  one of the others is bending her ear about something. Her eyes

  latch on to me as I leave the vestry.

  Outside, Helen waits while I light a cigarette, hold the smoke

  in my lungs for as long as possible, then release it in one long,

  slow exhalation. Nicotine is a poor substitute for alcohol, but I

  wouldn’t be without it. Especially now. I need all the crutches I

  can get. The door opens and Rosie steps out. It’s too late to

  shrink back into the shadows. She’s already seen us.

  ‘You okay, Astrid?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ she says, not waiting for an answer. She

  shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I hope you don’t

  mind me saying this, but I get the feeling you’ve been strug-

  gling lately. Am I right?’

  Helen’s eyes flick towards me as Rosie lights her cigarette and

  I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking, that Rosie’s a nosy

  cow who needs to mind her own business. The meeting is over.

  If she thinks I’m going to start spilling my guts out here in the

  open, she’s got another think coming. And what does she mean,

  she gets the feeling? As far as I know, I’ve been wearing my best poker- face all evening. She’s right, though, I’ll give her that.

  ‘No, I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  She doesn’t look convinced by the lie and I can hardly blame

  her for that. I’m so edgy I feel like I’ve taken some speed.

  Rosie nods. ‘It’s exhausting, isn’t it, staying sober?’

  ‘Even after eight years?’ Helen says.

  Rosie shrugs. ‘Eight years. Eight months. Eight days. Eight

  hours. It’s all the same.’

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  It might be Helen who asked the question, but it’s me Rosie’s

  talking to. Maybe Helen’s right about her singling me out as her

  pet project. It certainly feels that way.

  ‘Are you coming back in for coffee?’ she says, that strange lit-

  tle smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘No. I’m going to head back home now.’

  ‘You live with your mum, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Why is she asking me that again? I’ve already told her

  all this.

  Rosie reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a piece of

  paper. ‘My phone number,’ she says, sliding it into the top pocket

  of my shirt. ‘In case you ever need to talk and you can’t get hold

  of me at the shop.’

  Halfway back to the church, she stops and turns round.

  ‘Sorry, Helen. I should have written it down for you too. Feel

  free to make a note of it.’

  Helen gives her a brisk smile but doesn’t respond.

  ‘At least I know where I stand,’ she says when Rosie goes back

  inside.

  I take the piece of paper out of my pocket and stare at it. ‘Why

  did she put it in my pocket instead of just giving it to me?’

  I scrunch the paper up and toss it into the rubbish bin at the

  side of the path.

  ‘She’s right about one thing,’ Helen says as we head out of

  the churchyard. ‘It is exhausting, staying sober.’ She does the

  buttons up on her coat. ‘Do you think she’s right about it not

  getting any easier? I was kind of banking on that.’

  We walk for a while in silence and, though I wasn’t going to

  make a habit of walking back with her after meetings, tonight

  I’m glad of the company. I tell her what Rosie said to me the

  other day in the shop, about God watching over me.

  Helen snorts. ‘What, like some kind of stalker?’

  The word ‘stalker’ sends a shiver down my spine, only this

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  time it’s not the supernatural I have to be afraid of but the liv-

  ing, and that’s got to be worse, hasn’t it?

  ‘You can come in for a coffee if you like,’ she says. We’re

  almost at her block of flats now. ‘Proper coffee. Not like the

  stuff at AA. Or tea, if you prefer.’

  I hesitate. I should be getting back. Mum will only start fret-

  ting if I’m late. But suddenly I don’t want to be outside any

  more.

  ‘Do you have any green tea?’

  She twists her mouth to one side. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then why not?’

  I follow Helen through the wide glass doors. At the end of

  the path in the space between the tall hedges that separate the

  flats from the street a figure flashes past in a grey blur.

  Was that Rosie? Has she been following us?

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  14

  ‘It’s not mine, I rent it,’ Helen says, walking over to the window

  that looks out on to a small concrete balcony and drawing the

  curtains. She turns a couple of lamps on.

  It’s a typical rental. Neutral colours. Plain, functional furni-

  ture. But dotted around the place are small splashes of colour

  and personality. One of those Indian wall- hangings with tiny

  round mirrors sewn into it, brass candlesticks with half- burnt

  candles in them, an incense burner on a little circular table and

  a huge weeping fig in the corner.

  As I move further into the room I see that it’s an L- shape and

  that a small kitchen looks over the living area. Helen is already

  in there, filling up the kettle, taking tea caddies out of cup-

  boards, selecting cups. On the draining rack next to the sink is

  one dinner plate, one bowl and one upturned wine glass, which

  my eyes won’t leave alone. What I wouldn’t give for a good slug

  of red wine right now. That’d kick this fear into touch, or at the

  very least dull its edges.

  I watch Helen’s hands as she tears open a sachet that contains

  a green tea bag. No shaking tonight. Tonight she seems fine. I’d

  know if she’d been drinking. I wouldn’t have come up if she

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  had. Besides, you can drink anything out of a wine glass. Water.

  Fruit juice. Milk. I tend to avoid using them if I can, but that’s

  just me. Just holding a certain type of glass can be a trigger.

  ‘I’ve become rather obsessed with the whole paraphernalia

  surrounding tea and coffee,’ Helen says. ‘I’ve got at least four

  different teapots and more strainers and infusers than I’ll ever

  be able to use. As for coffee . . .’ She opens another cupboard to

  reveal shelves stuffed with cafetières, percolators, plastic filter

  holders, filter papers, a coffee- bean grinder and various packets

  of coffee beans.

  I lean on the counter and watch her set two cups on a tray.

  ‘Maybe it’s all part of our obsessive personalities. We need

  something to fill the void that alcohol once took up. I eat far

  too many sweet things too.’

  Helen opens another cupboard rammed with chocolates.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  She pulls out a packet of Red Bounties
and puts it on the tray

  with the tea.

  ‘I’ve become a bit obsessive about cleaning too,’ she says, set-

  ting it down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. ‘Something

  else to fill the days.’

  ‘You don’t work, then?’

  ‘I’m an accountant. Was an accountant. Well, still am, I suppose. An out- of- work accountant.’

  She looks round the room in distaste. ‘I used to have a really

  nice house, but then my work dried up.’ She puffs air through

  her nose. ‘Give you three guesses why. Couldn’t pay my mort-

  gage, got more and more into debt. Still, at least there was

  enough equity in the house to pay off the debts and start again.

  I’ve got just enough savings to live on for the next year if I’m

  really careful, but I’ll have to find some work soon.’

  ‘Did you live alone?’

  Her eyes cloud over. I’ve said the wrong thing.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. Honestly. I lived with my husband, but . . .’ She

  lowers her eyes. ‘He couldn’t cope with my drinking. He gave

  me an ultimatum.’ She pauses to stir her tea. ‘Actually, he

  gave me three.’

  I wait for her to continue. She’d started to share some of this

  at the meeting tonight but became too tearful and had to stop.

  ‘One day I got back from wherever it was I’d been and he’d

  cleared out, taken every last one of his possessions. I haven’t

  seen or heard from him since.’

  She sniffs and looks up, gives a sad little smile. ‘Think I’m

  ready for that Bounty now. Want one?’

  I sink my teeth into the dark, coconut- filled chocolate. It’s

  gone in a flash and I immediately want another one. I hardly

  touched my supper earlier. All I could think of were those

  blood- stained hands.

  ‘What was his name?’ I ask, trying hard to sound relaxed and

  normal.

  She bounces her teabag up and down by the string, then lifts

  it out and lays it carefully on the little saucer she’s placed on the table. Her mouth is pinched and for a minute or so I wonder if

  she’s heard me.

  ‘Peter,’ she says at last, her voice so soft I barely hear it. She’s staring into the middle distance, almost as if I’m no longer there.

  ‘My boyfriend was called Simon,’ I say, and before I know

  what’s happening my eyes are brimming with tears. Seeing that

  photo of him looking so happy and healthy has unpicked a

  fresh seam of grief.

  And guilt. Always the guilt.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘As long as it takes?’

  ‘It’ll take hours,’ I say. ‘Days. Trained counsellors can’t cope

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  with listening to this sort of shit for more than an hour, and

  they’re getting paid.’

  The urge to confide in her is strong. While I’ve more or less

  convinced myself that the incident at the beach huts and the

  thing with the T- shirt were nothing more than concoctions of

  my guilt- raddled mind, the contents of that envelope are some-

  thing else altogether. I need to tell someone or I’ll go mad.

  I guess that’s the whole point of making friends with other

  addicts. Knowing you can offload to someone who’s also fucked

  up. Not just once, but over and over again. And Helen gets me.

  I know she does. All those things she said at the last meeting.

  Then again, her fuck- ups aren’t likely to be on the same scale

  as mine. She and I are from different planets.

  ‘No, I’d better go. Mum practically has a seizure if I’m back

  late. I mean, I understand why and I can’t really blame her,

  but . . .’ I sigh. ‘It’ll be too much hassle if I don’t leave now.’

  ‘Can’t you give her a quick ring and tell her you’re with a

  friend from AA?’

  ‘To be honest, that’s not likely to reassure her. She’ll worry

  that we’ll egg each other on to have a drink.’

  I drain my last mouthful of tea and stand up. ‘It’s ridiculous,

  isn’t it? I’m a thirty- two- year- old woman and I feel like a teenager on curfew.’

  Helen carries our cups out to the kitchen. ‘I’d offer you my

  number in case you want to get in touch between meetings,’

  she says. ‘But you’ll probably just screw it up and throw it in a

  bin on the way home, like you did with Rosie’s.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  She puts the cups in the sink then comes back into the living

  room and scribbles it down on a sticky note. ‘You can put it in

  your pocket yourself,’ she says, smiling.

  She walks with me to the front door and watches from the

  top of the stairwell as I go down.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  ‘Astrid?’ she calls after me.

  I look up.

  ‘Let go and let God,’ she says, her voice strangely solemn all

  of a sudden.

  I stare at her in confusion. What the hell is she on about?

  She grins. ‘I googled those slogans you told me about. You’re

  right. There are loads of them.’

  Of course. She’s impersonating Rosie.

  I’m still laughing as I reach the main entrance, but when I

  see the black night waiting for me beyond the glass the laughter

  dies in my throat. Right now I don’t care if Mum does have another go at me. I just want to get home.

  I quicken my pace and take the shortest route. The back-

  ground roar of the sea sounds particularly menacing tonight.

  My heart is hammering away so fast I feel sick. I don’t want to

  look over my shoulder because that feels like giving in to the

  fear. Maybe whoever’s doing this is behind me right now.

  Maybe that grey figure I saw earlier wasn’t Rosie after all. Maybe

  it was the person who sent me that photo and they’ve been

  waiting all this time, skulking in the shadows.

  I force myself to turn round just long enough to see there’s no

  one there, then I keep on walking and don’t look round again.

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  She’s scared. It’s obvious from the way she’s walking. Charging for‑

  wards, chin pressed down on to her chest.

  I imagine a circle under her left shoulder blade – an optic view‑

  finder on a rifle.

  For a second I think she’s sensed me, like an animal senses danger.

  She stops dead in her tracks and spins round. I shrink back into the shadows till she starts up again, then follow her progress with my eyes.

  I reposition the viewfinder. My forefinger curls, then squeezes. The bullet hits its target and she slumps to the ground.

  Game over.

  Except it isn’t. Not yet. The game’s only just begun.

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  15

  This time, Mum doesn�
��t pounce on me in the hallway like a

  wildcat; she stays in the living room, watching TV, or pretending

  to. I surprise myself, and her, by apologizing for not texting to

  say I’d be late. Then I perch on the edge of the settee and tell her about Helen and her cupboards full of chocolate and coffee.

  ‘It’s nice that you’re making friends,’ she says.

  She doesn’t even warn me to be careful and take things

  slowly, and I know she wants to. It feels like something has

  shifted, that the ice field between us is starting to shrink. Just a fraction of an inch, but even so . . .

  God knows, it’s not easy living here with Mum again, but

  she’s all I’ve got now.

  Upstairs, I sit on my bed and stare at my top drawer, where

  the envelope with the photo of Simon in it is stuffed under my

  socks and knickers. I’m not going to look at it again. I’m not. It

  was stupid of me to get all worked up like that. I’ve never been

  scared of walking alone at night and I’m not about to start now.

  The only thing I’ve got to be scared of is the darkness in my

  own mind. The black holes. My anonymous pen pal knows

  that too. They’re clever, whoever they are. They don’t need to

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  physically harm me. They just need to sit back and watch me

  lose my mind. Well, I won’t give them the satisfaction.

  I take off my clothes and get into my pyjamas. Ten thirty at

  night and here I am, ready for bed like a good little mummy’s

  girl. I’m even hanging my clothes in the wardrobe instead of

  slinging them on the floor. Routine and structure. They used to

  bang on about that in rehab. Keep busy. Create new habits.

  Good ones, like hobbies and chores. Don’t give yourself time

  to get bored. Write in your journal every night.

  But the exercise book I’ve been using is in the same drawer

  as the envelope. Panic swells behind my breastbone as soon as

  I see it lying there. I think about tearing it up and throwing it

  away, or burning it in the garden. I could kick the embers into

  the soil and that would be that. But I can’t do either of those

  things because I can’t bring myself to tear up Simon’s beautiful,

  happy face and throw him out with the rubbish. I certainly

  can’t watch him devoured by flames.

  Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. Grief sideswipes me so hard it’s

  like a physical blow. Sometimes I struggle to believe he’s really